Sibylline
by Tucagwathiel
Summary: There was a peculiar boy, who meets a peculiar man, and the rest, as they say, is history.


Summary: There was a peculiar boy, who meets a peculiar man, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Warning(s): None for now, violence, blood shed, cursing in later chapters.

Disclaimer: This is going to be the general disclaimer for the rest of the story, as I don't want to ruin the flow of the story with interruptions in each chapter.

I, Tucagwathiel, neither own nor make no profit from the Harry Potter franchise or the Sherlock franchise. They each belong to their own individual owners.

**Sibylline**

The boy was small.

That was the first thought Sherlock had when he first noticed the figure. He was far too small for his age; malnourishment and possible physical abuse heavily implied what with the wounds on his body. Dirt and mud was mixed in his hair, suggesting that the boy had started living on the streets after running away.

It was raining that day, and there was nothing to suggest that Sherlock would have even noticed him at all, except for the fact that the boy was standing in the middle of the side-walk, across the street, staring straight at him. It was, as much as Sherlock hated to admit, rather unnerving to see a boy- not even half the size of Sherlock himself- staring straight at him with those eyes; those haunted, jaded eyes which seemed on the verge of giving up; that he had had enough.

It was while standing there, forgetting about his lead in the presence of a new puzzle, that Sherlock's lightning-fast mind finally registered _why_ exactly he was paying so much attention to a boy who should've not evoked such curiosity within himself- the boy was invisible to everyone else!

And it was true.

Aside from it being the end of Monday, a work day for everyone, this was always a busy city; meaning that, because the boy was just standing there, he altered the flow of people walking past without them even knowing. People seemed to unconsciously move around the spot where the boy was standing, their eyes' shifting over the boy as if they couldn't see him.

Granted, people were too self-absorbed in their own lives to notice a murder being placed right in front of them, but people would have definitely noticed a boy just standing there in the middle of a street. If anything, they would have given him enough notice to tell him to move out of the way.

It was with this revelation and the prospect of a new puzzle- one that was on an entirely different level from his other puzzles- that Sherlock crossed the street to where the boy stood. Sherlock watched the boy, allowing the boy to decide how the conversation should start. Commuters passing by began giving the tall man odd looks when they noticed him standing still instead of walking, but Sherlock didn't pay them any mind. Having earned odd looks throughout his life, Sherlock had grown used to such stares and, as such, was able to ignore them easily.

"…People look at you same way people used to look at me."

The voice was just above a whisper, and was like an antique radio fading in-and-out. Had he not been actively listening, Sherlock doubted he would have heard the boy's voice at all with how whispery-thin it was. Sherlock hummed in response.

"And how do they look at you, boy?" He asked, genuine in his curiosity. He could have easily known the answer without asking, but he was curious if the boy truly understood, and, if he admitted a little to himself, sometimes it was fascinating to see other people form their own conclusions without a genius detective around to correct them. He did it all time with Watson after all- though, in that case, he'd always correct Watson afterwards.

The boy seemed to be considering the question, taking time to carefully form his answer. Eventually, although Sherlock had almost begun to suspect the boy wasn't going to respond, he got his reply.

"People used to look at me like I was an oddity. I think, sometimes, they would wonder what right I had for being there with all the normal people. People look at you like you are different, too. It's not outside though, but deep, deep inside. Even just standing here beside me, they are thinking that you are a strange man for just standing here instead of having a specific destination to go to, and without knowing you, they are staring at you for talking to someone they cannot see."

The boy stopped, before a lone tear slid down his cheek.

"Something happened, and now nobody can see me. Why can't I be seen?"

The boy broke down into sniffles, rubbing his eyes with the far too long sleeves of his shirt.

Sherlock stood there, watching as the boy dealt with emotions he'd been avoiding for quite some time. Sherlock would freely admit that he was a selfish man. He was selfish, and did not care at all for other people's well-being. But, standing there watching the boy, Sherlock began to feel the strangest mixture of emotions of all.

He wanted to _help_ the boy.

And it wasn't just because the boy was the most interesting thing in this city- he wanted to help the boy because he felt pity. Sherlock was so stunned by these new feelings that he remained silent for many minutes, trying to process them.

After a time, when Sherlock felt he could talk without these new emotions showing through his voice, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Nobody can see you, yet I can. There's no way you can survive on the streets like this for very long. Come back to the flat with me, at the very least you'll get some food."

The boy stopped his sniffling abruptly, shocked at the suggestion, before looking up. "My aunt told me never to talk to strangers."

Sherlock, managing to make the barest of smiles- which, really, was more like a grimace, but the boy, who was used to being unseen for so long, gave a tentative smile back- responded. "If that's the case, then I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and, now, we are no longer strangers. Agreed?"

The boy let out a small giggle, quickly growing attached to the man. "And my name is Harry Potter, agreed!"

It would be the start of a beautiful friendship.


End file.
